Escape from Mossmire
by Escape from Mossmire
Summary: Woodlanders live with 7.88 million vermin of Mossmire City, built by Ratio the pine marten. But floods and fierce winds now threaten to ruin Ratio's ambitions. 11 beasts now face its collapse. Collaborative writing contest.
1. Prologue 1: The System Functions

_"This swamp maze," said Nori, gesturing to the scene in front of them. They stood on a dirt road, here and there dotted with flat stones. It looks like it might once have been a street, thought Fidget. The stoat confirmed this by continuing, "This once city, big city! But rains come and wash away, destroy. You walk on once-streets. They in many design-old city very tricky to get around in."_ - Fidget Alytirp, Questors Bold III

* * *

><p>Ellen perched on a weathervane. The crow surveyed the city from the Chief Architect's tower, which stood on the most prominent of the sloping hills. The air was heavy with smog in the morning, after a night's downpour. The forest of chimneys and air shafts belched black haze into the sky– the city's fires never quenched for long. A sonorous brass tone echoed from the harbour to the South, a bellows operated foghorn.<p>

The weathervane creaked as it turned in the breeze, pointing Ellen west. The sun was rising behind her, lighting the Great South Stream orange. The crow could see the flat surface of the water snaking around Dirgo District, the dumping ground of the city's poorest vermin. The river had permanently burst its banks and inundated the whole suburb. Ellen could make out the ant-like figures of vermin crossing makeshift rope bridges across their roofs to work.

A flick of the head, and the crow could see a hellish glow like a second sun being born in the North. Ferahgo Foundries. The giant caster and forger of steel. The conical twin smoke stacks had the letter 'F' proudly emblazed on both of them. The foundries burned day and night, driving Mossflower's competing smelters and casters into the dust. Every sword, spear and helmet, from Salamandastron's Long Patrol to the guards of Castle Floret, had the double F symbol engraved on it.

The crow shuffled across the weathervane as a screeching clamour was borne on the wind. The painful racket came from the Coops, the city's supply of eggs and bird meat. They had only named Little Redd River after the offal drainage had been installed. The crow spread its wings and floated down on the warm breeze. It was only warm from the city's heat, but it comforted her nonetheless. There was one building where she could rest. She could hide amongst the spires of her red-coloured oasis.

* * *

><p>The Woodlands Embassy was an eyesore. Chief Architect Ratio thought so and because the pine marten thought so, that meant everybeast else must have thought so too. It was asymmetrical, wasted entirely too much space on a garden which was quickly dying, and most perplexing of all, it was red. Bright, garish, hideous red. Not naturally either. Ratio would have been fine with an ochre-red stone, a colour of nature. But no, the woodlanders had <em>painted<em> it. To remind them of home, they said. Like the suffering oak tree and the stagnant pond were supposed to make the squirrels and otters feel more comfortable.

The Embassy was squeezed between a pump station and a set of ventilation chimneys. Though the Embassy was hideous, and the pumping station was an ugly reminder of the floods, Ratio's chimneys were a work of genius. All it took was a fire under one chimney. The noxious air would be drawn out of the tunnel below as it rose with the smoke. The second chimney would balance this by sucking in fresh– well, not so stagnant –air from outside and letting it flow into the tunnel.

Simple and efficient. Ratio at his best.

The marten brushed open the Embassy's door, flanked by two hefty ferrets. The entrance hall had another useless pond in it, in which sat the marble statue of a mouse.

Ratio's sore eyes fell upon a familiar squirrel, dressed in a doublet adorned with far too many ruffles for the occasion, who jumped in alarm. Furiously smoothing his garish attire, the woodlander hesitated, before he held out his paw. "M-my Lord, if I might invite you to the parlour?" The male's voice was a tremulous tenor. Ratio sighed.

"I'm not a lord. Your badger friend in the mountain is a lord. I'm an architect. Address me as Chief Architect the first time, then sire after that." Ratio stumped through the doors to the parlour, determined to take the weight off his paws. The room was too neat, the furniture too untouched. The only real comfort was the lit fireplace. The woodlanders really lived in the upper storeys of the building. This was a show room for guests.

"Surely you remember Ambassador Lyndon? _Chief Architect_," a scornful voice rose from one of the overstuffed armchairs. It belonged to an otter, disgracefully bare-chested and seated in defiance.

"Ah! Oh, er, Sire! This is my associate, Ambassador Kelp." Lyndon darted between the two mustelids. "We've only just been promoted from being assistant diplomats, forgive our lapse in protocol!"

"Forgiven. Great thinkers are often scorned by… others," Ratio replied, wincing as he sank into his chair. Where had his mind been? Oh yes, the pumping station. Perhaps if there was some kind of aqueduct from Zigu Square to the Fisheries…

"Oh, great thinker! I can see that. So great ye designed a city that _moves_," Kelp scoffed. As if to punctuate his point, a dull thump sounded in the distance. Ratio's mind was jolted out of planning as he gauged the echoing resonance of the thump, the subsequent crack of split timber beams, and then the drunken swearing. A water tower must have slid into Old Sooty's Pub and Tavern, judging from the Southsward lilt of the cursing barkeep.

Lyndon wrung his paws, embarrassed. "Sire, ordinarily we would not demand any of your valuable time, of course, but this is a matter of the safety of our household. You see, it's the cellar."

"It's flooded," Ratio guessed, rubbing his forehead. Lyndon's paws gripped at a frilled cushion.

"Er, yes. That, and there's a group of ferrets that have dug a bypass through it. Something about collapsing tunnels," Lyndon explained.

"Yes, they're rerouting tunnels everywhere. It shouldn't be a problem," Ratio muttered, his mind crammed with thoughts of floor plans and tunnel maps. The otter leapt out of his seat, his paws raised to punctuate each syllable.

"A _problem_? There's vermin makin' our cellar a highway! Give it a few more days o' rain and they'll turn it into a harbour!"

"Your cellar was not an efficient use of space anyway. There's nothing important down there. At least now it's serving the city," Ratio retorted snappily. He instantly regretted raising his voice.

"Right, ye poncy git." Kelp started forward. Ratio's guards were stilled by one flick of his paw. "Yer city is becoming a lake. I can't walk down a road without sinkin' or gettin' a face full o' muck!"

"If you are referring to the excessive wind, it is a simple phenomenon. The result of tall buildings in straight lines which causes a sort of... tunnel effect," Ratio mused. "Unfortunately this has the consequence of eroding the earth. Combined with the water runoff, we lose quite a lot of soil to the Great South Stream."

"Sire, something must be done. What if the Embassy's foundations collapse? We'll have nowhere to live!" Lyndon fretted.

Ratio pawed at his temples. All this shouting was doing his head in. He had not slept since yesterday and there were still five major tunnel inundations he wanted to reroute today. "There is no need to panic, Ambassador. I have control of everything. I promise."

The thunderous toll of the city's bell rattled the embassy's windows. Braggio, it was called. Ratio had named it when the enormous steel tube had first been cast. It rang every four hours precisely, as the giant hourglass beside it was turned to mark the time. Efficient, the way the marten liked it. Ratio nodded to the woodlanders.

"This meeting is over."


	2. Prologue 2: Correcting Imperfections

_"To make fair, bird no fly higher than tower," said their stoat guide in an effort to remind them of their challenge. He pointed to a derelict, crazily tilting stone structure a bit farther ahead, obviously once a tower, as Fidget could see by the small windows carved into it. "It warning tower for old city. It not wash away." The robin's gaze floated to the top of the structure where there was an open space._ Could it have held...a bell?_Fidget wondered._ - Fidget Alytirp, Questors Bold III

* * *

><p>Melver's flat was modest. Though his pay afforded him the top floor, eight storeys above ground, it was still humble compared to Gulo Gardens. The old brick building was quickly being abandoned as the tunnels below flooded, and the foundations had started to sink into the mud of Mossflower's wettest year in living memory.<p>

The weasel barely stirred as the tower tilted gently. The waterlogged tunnels below offered little support, as the flat leant straight into the neighbours across the narrow alleyway. Melver awoke to a deafening crash and a shower of broken masonry.

Braggio's Bell tolled in the distance. Melver's bedroom was slanted at an unnatural angle. He could see through the window clouds of white dust, rolling through the rows of countless identical flats that spanned onwards left and right like an arching valley. He could still remember the perfect squares Ratio had agonised over for the foundations. Melver blinked at the cracked window panes. Sudden realisation, and the weasel leapt up to get dressed.

Melver struggled into the muddy vestiges of what had once been a guard's uniform of the Architect's Watch. However, his royal blue tunic had become more bluish-grey in patches. He had haphazardly cut off the sleeves, exposing his arms. Melver wriggled into breeches in a similar condition and stumbled to the door, heaving on a pair of heavy boots encrusted with dried mud.

The weasel bounded down the wrought iron stairs, ignoring the chaotic noises of his fellow vermin. They would evacuate the building in a panic, but he knew they'd be back by evening if the flat was still standing. There simply was not enough room to go anywhere else, at least not without a great deal of stamps and influence– Mirebeasts that lived around Melver tended to have neither.

* * *

><p>The morning walk to work was full of surprises. In his ten years of building Mossmire City, Melver had never taken the exact same route twice. This morning he was going through the tunnels, out of the ruins of the flat's first storey. Despite the dust and dripping ceiling, they were brightly lit.<p>

Bioluminescent fungus, Ratio had told him. The tunnel walls were packed with radiant green life. There was a booming industry in cultivating the stuff, what with the constant building and rebuilding and rerouting of the underground network. Tunnel cartography was a dead profession. No tunnel map could stay current for more than a few weeks, so no beast with a vague sense of direction would buy one.

Melver set off towards Zigu Square. He could reach it by taking a bridge over Sagitar Stream, the raging torrent that ran past Ferahgo Foundries into the Great South Stream. Melver hated this part of the walk. The rope bridge swung alarmingly from side to side as vermin crossed over the churning brown foam. Steel signs, once painted a vivid red, lined the banks of the river. They served as a warning to vermin thinking of taking a drink or a swim in waterways that contained anything from offal to iron scraps to waste from the entire population's privies. The Great South Stream's nauseating output had ruined the lives of every shrew clan all the way to the western shores.

Zigu Square was the city's first and biggest public market. Melver passed by the cheap clothing stalls, the haberdashers, the deep-bellied pots of bird meat being sold on sticks. He took no interest in the younger vermin crowding the hatters and firmly ignored the rat trying to sell bargain gondolas at thirty stamps each, oars costing extra. It would be such fun, he thought, gliding through the water, standing at the tiller with a boater over his ears, the breeze and the sun in his face. Melver twitched and clenched the purse on his belt. He would have to think about it.

A brightly painted wooden platform had attracted quite a crowd. Melver snickered at the familiar antics being played out on the stage. The usual stock characters were instantly recognisable; the trickster servant, the rich old beast, the pompous doctor and the boastful soldier. The actors wore vivid half-masks, adorned with bright feathers and grotesquely exaggerated features. Melver clapped as the players took a bow. The players took a moment's rest, and Melver's attention shifted to getting on his way.

* * *

><p>"So, instead of the runoff collecting in the city's underground, the aqueduct clears the drains and carries the water to the Great South Stream. Then it's not our problem. Crisis averted!" Ratio bounced from one footpaw to the other, his scheming eyes poring over a battered diagram of steel arches, inky notes scrawled in every blank space.<p>

"The Foundries are moving the steel in by barges. We'll make decent headway if we're dry," Melver chattered. Ratio paused, his nostrils flaring. Melver winced. He knew that scrunched up expression well.

"You're not getting it dry, Melver. I've pressured the pump crews to keep the Square's tunnels moist at best. No beast is getting anything dry." Ratio's voice was hoarse. Another night spent working, the weasel guessed.

"You can rely on me, Chief," Melver said bracingly. He smiled, the marten needed some cheering up. "Hey, Chief? Remember when we opened Pitru Park? It was just over there!"

Ratio's whiskers twitched as he shot a glance at the former Pitru Park. The neat rows of flowerbeds and marble walkways had been crushed underneath a pumping station, which sloshed and groaned as it dredged up the muddy slop from the underground. Melver wilted.

* * *

><p>Though Ratio's beautiful parks had been systematically eliminated in his quest for efficiency, Ratio was still proud of Zigu Square. Each side he knew was equally long. The flagstones formed a perfect circular pattern radiating from the centre. It had taken him some time to decide if he wanted a statue or a fountain in the very middle. Eventually, he had elected for a fountain; it would be perfectly symmetrical.<p>

The pine marten circled the fountain despondently, his dirty red cloak sweeping a clear path across the muddy flagstones. The fountain used to spout clean water, fit to drink. Now the beautiful marble carvings dripped a pinkish hue from the Coops, and the spouts were ringed by mud.

Though he got the odd stare now and then, Ratio's guards made sure he was left alone. As Melver's crew of labourers slouched about barricading off the soggy earthworks, he spotted a very conspicuous squirrel trotting his way. Ratio cursed under his breath.

"Sire!" Lyndon called, giving the guards a hard look as he passed them. "I wanted to apologise for Kelp."

"It's forgotten, Ambassador. I have more immediate conundra to examine," Ratio replied. He sighed inwardly at the woodlander's blank expression. "Imagine a basin. Zigu Square is at the bottom, and all the rain is coming here and finding its way into the tunnels."

"You can call me Lyndon, sire. We're not strangers, after all," Lyndon muttered.

"I'd prefer..." Ratio began, giving the squirrel a frown. His features softened after a moment. "Lyndon."

"It's been such a long time since Salamandastron has heard from you, sire." Lyndon continued. "Perhaps you'd come with us next time we visit?"

"We can't leave Mossmire until I've fixed the flooding problems." Ratio gestured to the miniature rivers that formed whirlpools around each drain and stairwell to the underground city.

Lyndon's tail drooped. "We can't?"

Ratio folded his arms. "We're in this together. Woodlander or not, we're all Mirebeasts. I can't let officials desert my city at the first sign of trouble. You trust us, don't you? Lyndon?"

Lyndon looked ready to keel over. Ratio considered patting the squirrel's shoulder. Why couldn't Lyndon see that he would keep them safe?


	3. Prologue 3: Siege Mentality

Lyndon was lucky to get out of bed at the best of times. The squirrel was startled awake by every creak from the attic above and every rustle of the oak's dwindling count of leaves outside. In the mornings, Lyndon usually couldn't sit up until midday. Through the night, he would lie awake and silently worry about everything; the flooded cellar, the city, and the tense relationship they had with Ratio.

Mostly, he would think about himself. Twenty-six seasons old and already he looked forty. The city's semi-permanent haze of soot and Martin-knows-what-else the Foundries pumped into the air had dyed his younger, bright red fur an oily rust-brown. Then there was the diet. The vermin insisted on putting meat in absolutely anything that would hold it: Bird meat in pies, fish in wraps, chunks of flesh on sticks and eggs fried in industrial greases.

Lyndon would spend quite some time fantasising about food that did not contain dead creatures. Redwallers were supposed to enjoy candied chestnuts, meadowcream with sweet berries and warm scones with jam straight from the kitchen ovens. It would all be lovingly and carefully crafted by the chef, who would be jolly and always have seconds ready. Here, it was a factory. Everything was slathered in something acidic and the jolly chefs were scarred stoats and peg-legged rats who had taken to cooking after an injury at the docks.

Nobeast seemed pleased to see Lyndon. He missed the friendly atmosphere at Redwall, where your food was served and presented nicely. This evening, his stew had been slopped onto his plate hard enough to splatter his beautiful doublet.

Claws tapped against the attic floor. Ellen was back. The crow stirred overhead, but Lyndon rolled over and tried to ignore her. His large ears flicked. No chance of sleep now. He pulled himself from bed and blearily shrugged on a shirt and breeches. Bare-pawed, he felt his way to the attic stairs.

From outside, faint green light shone through the attic windows. The bioluminescent fungus that the vermin had cultivated grew wild in places, finding its way into moist nooks and eaves of buildings where mud and water had formed pockets of life. Though Lyndon feared the city, he had never seen anything quite so incredible as Mossmire at night. From the embassy's tallest tower, the city was a conflagration of countless bluish-green embers.

"Ellen? You made it back?"

"You fret too much, woodlander," the crow rasped. Her nest was a mix of twigs snatched from the oak and ragged laundry stolen from the countless lines threaded between the city's flats.

"They'll eat you if they catch you. I'm allowed to worry." Lyndon shivered and braced himself, wishing for a fireplace.

The crow coughed derisively. "How fares your merry household, Lynny?"

"Haven't had a decent break since before the Hundred Days Festival. The vermin really take the celebrations seriously."

"You'd understand why, if you'd been there," Ellen muttered wistfully, "You would have seen what ambition and strength the pine marten had."

"I saw the fires. I wasn't so young not to care about him destroying the swamps," Lyndon huffed. He had been a sprightly sixteen-seasons-old messenger back then. The squirrel could still smell the freshly cut timber and the veil of smoke that had been carried all the way to Redwall. Lyndon had run back and forth from the Abbey to Salamandastron for months, carrying frightened letters from the Abbot asking what was to be done with the oncoming wall of scaffolds. The Hundred Days: the birth of Mossmire.

In the end, Lord Beringer came down with a crew of woodlanders and Long Patrollers to confront the self-styled Lord Ratio. That was when Lyndon had first seen him, at the building works. The vermin carried no weapons and his yellow bib was not covered by armour. He was just trying to make the vermin shanty towns more efficient, Ratio had explained. He spouted ideas about encouraging a boom in vermin industry practices, about increased living standards and food distribution. Most bewildering, the pine marten thought the badger had come to help.

In the end, the surprised Beringer consented. Salamandastron poured gold into the project and validated the currency of metal stamps. The Long Patrol was drafted into labour work. In return, Lord Ratio agreed to renounce his title and to limit the city's expansion. Most importantly, no vermin could settle outside the city. Seasons later, when the scaffolds had gone and the city was pressed to its limits, Lyndon returned as a diplomat.

"You seem fond of him, Ellen," Lyndon remarked.

"Fond? He cut down my swamp," Ellen muttered. "The family tree ended up as furniture. But I admire his determination. You, however, waste your time trying to impress him," She stared at the squirrel for a moment. Lyndon has the uncomfortable sensation she was only just noticing how terrible he looked. "You need to impress Folio. The ferret is your key out of the city."

"Perhaps, but I'm worried about Kelp. I just need to talk him out of his siege mentality." Lyndon heard her shuffle in the dark. A horrid thought struck him. "Ellen, you weren't spotted coming back here, were you?"

"Get some rest, Lynny." Ellen fell silent. Lyndon moved forward as if to touch her, then turned to leave.

* * *

><p>Kelp stared through the window at the guardhouse. It was a wooden box, painted in black and white stripes, with enough room for one of the vermin to sit on a stool, his pike dripping in the evening rain. The city had no civil guards– every sentry was privately owned. Ferahgo Foundries had the Corpsemakers, a group of idlers with none of the glory of their forebears. Ratio had the Architect's Watch, which specialised in patrolling Gulo Gardens and turning away beggars and ruffians. The pine marten had given the Embassy one guard.<p>

Kelp curled his lip and turned from the window. One flea-bitten vermin with a pike. One was not good enough. There was an entire horde waiting on his doorstep to attack. He would cut down the brutes with sabre, knife or his bare paws– Kelp was more than ready for a fight with the city's inhabitants.

Kelp had enlisted the help of the Embassy's able bodied woodlanders. Procuring weapons was shockingly easy– the foundries would literally sell anything on the spot if you had the stamps. The main trouble had been the whole 'able-bodied' part. There were twenty six woodlanders in the building. Four were children, six were going grey in the fur and seven insisted they were pacifists.

That left nine woodlanders, plus Kelp himself. Yet as he wandered through his armoury, the otter saw only eight swords neatly placed in their racks. Kelp wore his and slept with it. The other missing sword belonged to Lyndon. Kelp's supposed comrade in arms. It had been different when they had first met. Lyndon would do anything to best him. He had once climbed a chimney for a dare. They had sparred together. Now Lyndon's sword was collecting dust in one of the cabinets. Kelp knew why this was happening. It was like a hostage situation, the captives bonding with their vermin hosts. Lyndon was actually growing _fond_ of Ratio and his cohort of rich beasts and factory owners like Folio.

Kelp found the sword wrapped in rags. It was Mossmire's best replication of a squirrel's sabre, curved and short. Kelp weighed it in his paws. Lyndon had not touched it in months. The otter padded up the stairs and hesitated at the landing outside Lyndon's room. He raised a paw to knock. A flicker of doubt was all it took for Kelp to give up.

* * *

><p><em>Dear Lynny,<em>

I would be very grateful for your company in my sparring sessions. It's been too long since our last match. I've oiled and polished your blade. I hope it will still feel familiar to your paws.

~K

Kelp's fireplace burned hot with paper scraps. Previous drafts of the letter had implored Lyndon to talk with him privately, accused the squirrel of becoming a recluse and even asked forgiveness for neglecting their friendship. Kelp stared at the letter. It communicated absolutely nothing he really wanted to say. But it was either that or talk to Lyndon face to face. Kelp knew he had not the courage for that.


End file.
